Though of course there is no “day” and “night” when you are floating in permanent sunlight, it was still convenient to stick to the terms. Certainly when I woke up that “morning” it felt like 6 a.m. on Earth. I had a nagging headache, and vague memories of fitful, disturbed dreams. It took me ages to undo my bunk straps, and I was still only half awake when I joined the remainder of the duty crew in the mess. Breakfast was unusually quiet, and there was one seat vacant.

“Where’s Sven?” I asked, not very much caring.

“He’s looking for Claribel,” someone answered. “Says he can’t find her anywhere. She usually wakes him up.”

Before I could retort that she usually woke me up, too, Sven came in through the doorway, and we could see at once that something was wrong. He slowly opened his hand, and there lay a tiny bundle of yellow feathers, with two clenched claws sticking up pathetically into the air.

“What happened?” we asked, all equally distressed.

“I don’t know,” said Sven mournfully. “I just found her like this.”

“Let’s have a look at her,” said Jock Duncan, our cook-doctor-dietitian. We all waited in hushed silence while he held Claribel against his ear in an attempt to detect any heartbeat.

Presently he shook his head. “I can’t hear anything, but that doesn’t prove she’s dead. I’ve never listened to a canary’s heart,” he added rather apologetically.

“Give her a shot of oxygen,” suggested somebody, pointing to the green-banded emergency cylinder in its recess beside the door. Everyone agreed that this was an excellent idea, and Claribel was tucked snugly into a face mask that was large enough to serve as a complete oxygen tent for her.

To our delighted surprise, she revived at once. Beaming broadly, Sven removed the mask, and she hopped on to his finger. She gave her series of “Come to the cook-house, boys” trills—then promptly keeled over again.